Ten Years On (27 page)

I make a desultory start on the tree, then fall asleep watching
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, only to be awakened by the sound of knocking against the back door.

It’s pitch black and pouring with rain. I head to the door. Joe isn’t wearing a coat, and his hair is dripping wet. I usher him inside, out of the freezing cold. ‘Were you about to go to bed?’ he asks when he sees me in my pyjamas and the zebra-striped furry slippers that Olly gave me last Christmas.

‘I wanted to find out how you are,’ Joe says, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was going to take it
that
badly.’

‘I’m OK.’

‘She’s used to getting her way all the time – that’s what it was about. She was hurt, but that doesn’t excuse her behaviour.’

Joe reaches for the bowl of sugar in the middle of the kitchen table, heaps sugar into the spoon, pours it back into the bowl repeatedly.

‘If anyone’s to blame, it’s me,’ he confesses. ‘We had a great time the first few months. It was mainly lust,’
he admits. ‘I was bowled over by her looks. I’m shallow. There you are.’ He holds up his hands, guilty as charged.

‘You’re a bloke. If I were a man, I’d have fancied her too.’

‘I knew I had to end it though. When she asked me to meet her parents, I didn’t want to. I realized I had no deep feelings for her and I never would. I tried to let her down gently today. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.’

I reach for his hand to stop him from playing with the sugar. ‘I’m so sorry she forgot Olly’s name,’ he says, ‘and for the way she spoke to you.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m a big girl. Especially now.’ I place both hands either side of my bump.

Joe doesn’t smile. ‘She should have taken it out on me. After everything you’ve been through, the last person I wanted her to hurt was you.’

I’ve persuaded Joe to stay and help me decorate the Christmas tree. He finds a lonely branch and hangs a smiling Santa on it. ‘No more talk about Peta,’ he says. ‘How are
you
?’

I tell him I have a mouth ulcer from eating too many pineapples.

‘Why are you eating pineapples?’

I hang a bright-red glass heart on the branch above Santa and our arms touch. I tell him pineapples supposedly help bring on the baby.

Joe laughs as he bends down to put a glittery gold bauble on a lower branch. He glances at an envelope wrapped in ribbon under the tree. ‘For my parents,’ I say. ‘I bought them tickets to Siena next spring.’ I tell Joe it’s a thank-you for everything they have done for me.

‘There’s something here for you too.’ I pick up a flat package wrapped in brown parcel paper and finished off with a red velvet ribbon.

‘For me? Wow.’

‘Open it.’

‘I haven’t got anything for you.’

‘Good. You don’t need to. Open it,’ I demand again.

Inside is an oil painting of a lemon tree, just like the one he’d loved at Bristol.

He looks at me, warmth in his eyes.

‘Thank you, Joe. You were the one who encouraged me to paint again.’

‘I love it.’

‘It won’t sell for millions at Sotheby’s, but …’

‘It’s priceless to me.’

We continue decorating the tree, me unwrapping a
second chocolate reindeer and laughing as I say in between mouthfuls that it’s for the baby, who happens to have a very sweet tooth.

‘How convenient of him. How many days to go?’

‘Ten.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Thanks.’ I take the silver angel and stick her on top of the tree. ‘Now I feel
so
much better.’

Over eggs on toast Joe asks about my plans after the baby is born.

‘I’m moving back to London as soon as I can.’

‘You won’t miss your family?’

‘London’s only an hour and a half up the M3.’

‘Do you want to go back?’ I notice he has barely touched his food.

‘Yes and no.’

‘You haven’t thought about living down here?’ he asks, tentatively adding, ‘Permanently? It could be a new start.’

‘Joe, I’ll miss you too.’

‘I’m thinking practically …’ He stops, checks himself. ‘I will miss you too, Becca.’

I smile. ‘These last six months, they’ve been hard, but what’s largely got me through is my family’s
support, meeting Annie again, this baby …’ I look down to my enormous stomach. ‘Losing your mind isn’t a luxury you have when you’re pregnant. And the other thing that’s got me through is working at Maison Joe. Well, not just that, it’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘I’m glad you came back into my life, and I’m so happy we’ve put the past behind us. Despite everything, it’s what Olly would have wanted too. I won’t forget this time we’ve had together.’

‘Nor will I. But we’re going to stay in touch, aren’t we? You’re talking as if we won’t see each other for another ten years!’

We start to recount the wine course, Adam’s pride at receiving his Maison Joe certificate at the end, which he told me he was going to frame. We think about Janet’s gutsy laugh and her getting tipsy, and Monica avoiding wild-haired Henry before falling for the lovely Scott. I remember Joe helping me get through Olly’s birthday and spending time with his father, Francis. ‘Can we go to the Lobster Pot?’ I ask Joe, before we both laugh.

‘If we didn’t laugh, we’d cry,’ Joe adds.

We sit and listen to the rain outside. ‘You’ve helped me too, Becca,’ he says, finally breaking the silence.
‘There was always this gap, this void after losing touch with you and Olly.’

‘Wait there.’

‘Becca? What are you doing?’

‘You’ll see. I’ve got something else for you.’

I go up to my bedroom and slide out the box of Olly’s things from underneath my bed. I return with an envelope, hand it to Joe.

He opens it. Inside are the passport photographs Olly had kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. Tears come to Joe’s eyes. ‘I remember that day. We were pretty bored so we walked into town. You were in Florence.’

‘Well, it would be boring without me there,’ I joke.

He picks up the other photograph. ‘This was taken at Kitty’s New Year’s Eve party, wasn’t it? It’s a great shot. Look how
young
we are! Can I really keep these?’

I nod, touched by how much they mean to him.

We continue to reminisce, recalling our day trekking up St Catherine’s Hill, Joe letting go of the balloons to say goodbye to Olly. I see us playing Mr Froggy in the maze and the school children laughing at him in his red boxer shorts.

‘After the day we’ve had, I could do with a good scream. Shall we go now?’ he suggests.

‘I don’t think I could climb one step.’

‘I could carry you.’

‘And break your back?’

‘Ten days until he’s due,’ he says, thinking out loud, ‘and then everything will change.’

‘I know. I’ve been lucky, cushioned down here. It’s terrifying moving on, but I think I’ve found a possible place to rent and …’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘You can come and visit us, plus I’ll be down here all the time. You’ll hardly notice I’ve gone.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘Joe?’

He takes in a deep breath. ‘Peta was right to be jealous.’

‘What?’

‘Oh God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this now.’ He gets up, paces the room. ‘The thing is, Becca, she had a point. Partly the reason we split up was, well, I’m not in love with her. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, not properly.’

I get up from the table, take my mug to the sink.

‘Becca, look at me.’

He’s standing by my side now. He takes my arm, turns me towards him. ‘I fell for you back at Bristol, you know
that. We had that one night together, but I could never have you. You were with my best friend. Do you
know
how that felt? You meant everything to me, you still do, and the idea of not seeing you again, not having you around, it breaks my heart, and—’

I pull away from him. ‘Joe! Stop. Don’t say it.’

‘I can’t help the way I feel.’

‘Joe, please …’

‘I love you.’

‘No! It’s wrong, this is all wrong.’

‘Becca …’

‘You can’t replace Olly. No one can!’

‘Right. Right, I understand.’

He walks out of the kitchen.

I hear the back door close.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to block the pain out.

I hear footsteps along the gravelled driveway. What am I going to do? What have I just done? ‘Joe! I’m sorry!’ I call, running towards the back door. I fling it open and stagger out into the pouring rain. I rush back into the kitchen and grab my telephone, deciding to call him and tell him to come back, but then I feel a dull pain right across my swollen stomach. Then my waters break. I wad some kitchen towels between my legs and
clutching my belly I head for the back door, but he’s too far away. ‘Joe!’ I shout. He doesn’t hear me. ‘Joe!’

He’s gone.

I dial his number. ‘You have reached Joe Lawson …’

I hang up and try once more, stabbing at the buttons.

The pain comes again, only stronger this time.

43

West London, Eighteen Months Later

‘No more!’ I take the packet of ginger snaps away from my son. His face wrinkles like a prune, so to prevent tears I take his hand and pull him towards our favourite red swing. ‘You’ll feel like Superman,’ I say, when I promise to push him high, ‘and Superman never cries, does he? He’s a superhero!’ I lift him into the seat just as it starts to drizzle. ‘Why do we live in London, hey? It always rains,
drip, drop
, even in the summer.’

‘Jip, jop,’ he repeats, wriggling about.

‘Here we go, my poppet. Are you ready to fly!’

He giggles, hits the sides of the swing in eager anticipation, biscuits forgotten.

I push him with a ‘Whoosh!’

He laughs again.

I love it when he laughs, because in that moment he reminds me of Olly. I see that light shining in his big brown eyes.

Alfie came into my life in a fairly traumatic way: a labour that lasted over twenty hours, and I can still remember Kitty fainting when she saw the pool of red water. Birth is magical, but it’s blood, guts and toil too. After my waters broke, Mum and Dad rushed home from their bridge evening. I called Kitty too, and she said she’d jump in the car straightaway.

My father was muttering like an old man and walking with a dramatic limp. ‘Why are you walking like that all of a sudden?’ Mum snapped, cleaning up the mess I’d made on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t just a trickle; more like a burst pipe. ‘Go and get the bag!’

‘The bag?’ Dad was flustered. Audrey was barking and chasing her tail.

‘That we packed for hospital! It’s in Becca’s room. Quick.’

Dad limped out of the room.

‘Why’s he walking like that?’ Mum repeated, mopping the floor with a vengeance. She was like a gale-force wind that needed to calm down.

‘Mum, I’ve only had a few contractions, so please,
please
relax.’

‘I’m so excited,’ she then said, clutching my hands.

My mind returned to Joe. I felt terrible; guilty – he’d been so supportive, such a good friend – but I couldn’t deal with what he’d said.

Close to one o’clock in the morning the four of us drove to the hospital. Dad was driving cautiously in the darkness, Mum frustrated by our progress. ‘There’s nobody on the road, Harvey!’

Poor Dad. ‘I have precious cargo on board,’ he argued. ‘Stop harassing me.’

To ease the tension he complained that I’d called him just when he had a demon hand of cards. ‘I was about to make a grand slam.’

Kitty was squeezing the life out of my hand, encouraging me to concentrate on Augusta’s breathing exercises. Later, when the contractions became more intense, I remember screaming Olly’s name.

‘More, Mama,’ Alfie demands. I realize I’d lost my concentration. ‘Off we go, high in the sky!’ I say with renewed energy.

My head midwife was a man called Willy. ‘Only you would have a midwife called Willy,’ Kitty had whispered, making me laugh in spite of everything.

I remember the first few minutes of holding my baby
in my arms and feeling his warm and tiny body nestled against my chest. I loved him gripping my fingers. I stroked his hair, breathed in his smell. He made me feel close to Olly.

All my friends sent cards, chocolates and baby clothes, turning my room into a gift shop. When Pippa, Todd and the twins entered the ward, they looked as if they’d brought with them the entire toy department of Hamleys.

Kitty joined me, perching on my bed. ‘You’ve possibly put me off giving birth for life,’ she said, ‘but well done – you did it.’

I took her hand. ‘We did it. Will you be his guardian, if anything happens to me?’

‘Nothing will happen to you.’ Kitty tried to calm me down, told me I was tired.

‘It’s not morbid. I just need to know.’

‘And then you’ll stop worrying?’

I nodded. ‘My parents are old, it’s too much responsibility. Pippa has the twins and she’ll always be his aunt, but you’re my best friend.’

Kitty smiled, touched. ‘I promise I’ll look after him.’ We hugged. ‘Any ideas for names?’

I looked down at my boy.

‘Alfred Oliver Sullivan. Alfie for short.’

Most of all, I shall never forget my mother saying she was proud of me. It made me think of Olly and Joe and how, in a way, that’s what the three of us have always craved: approval in our parents’ eyes. ‘I love you, and I’m so proud of you,’ she said, rocking Alfie in her arms.

As we make our way home from the park, I think about Mum and Dad and how much I miss them.

After Alfie was born, I spent a month at home over Christmas and New Year, my mother and I establishing a routine and my father often being sent out on errands to the supermarket or newsagents. Mum taught me everything I needed to know about looking after Alfie, including how to swaddle him in the old Shetland knitted shawl that she had used for me and had kept so carefully for her own grandchildren.

On a daily basis I received further blue-coloured congratulatory cards from friends, but I didn’t hear from Joe, which was understandable. I had made it clear how I felt; we couldn’t just turn around and resume a normal friendship, pretend nothing had happened.